


Payback

by HalfshellVenus



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Community: fanfic100, Dark, M/M, Male Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-21
Updated: 2006-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-12 18:07:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7944166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfshellVenus/pseuds/HalfshellVenus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If they were different, this is how it would be…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Payback

**Author's Note:**

> First, this is kind of dark by nature of the challenge. [](http://musicophilia.livejournal.com/profile)[musicophilia](http://musicophilia.livejournal.com/) requested a Lincoln/Michael slash drabble with Dominant Michael, which is a major challenge to how I view the characters. In looking through the [](http://fanfic100.livejournal.com/profile)[fanfic100](http://fanfic100.livejournal.com/) table, where I have the slash pairing of Lincoln and Michael, this idea surfaced from prompt #82, “If.” Because _this_ is an approach I can work with…

x-x-x-x-x

If they were different, this is how it would be:

Lincoln would _owe_ , for every sleepless night Michael suffered. For every scar, every drop of blood, every tear shed in anger, fear or despair. He would owe not for the times he kept Michael safe, for the food he brought to the table, but for the nights he disappeared leaving Michael to fend for himself. For the stoned arguments, the Juvie brawls and lockups, the jail sentence that nearly forced Michael to give up on him—he would owe big time for that. And Michael would collect…

If they were different, Michael would work that guilt into the ground. It would start with failure and continue through Lisa and LJ, and finish in Fox River and the lengths to which Michael was driven to save him.

If he forced things the way he wanted, Lincoln would grovel at his feet.

“Show me you love me,” Michael would say. And Lincoln might pat his arm, or hug him, like he thought Michael intended.

“Not that way,” Michael would correct him. “Show me body and soul, like your life depends on it, what I mean to you and what you’d do to make it right.”

And he’d pull Lincoln closer, sliding a hand behind his neck. He’d stare him down, focusing on his eyes, his lips, all serious and fierce with no chance for Lincoln to resist.

He’d say, “Show me, Lincoln. Show me,” and let the tension rising between them make his point.

And Lincoln would give in—because he knows Michael has the right to ask this. Because there are amends to be made, and he’d better start somewhere. Because he loves Michael, and that line between them is thin.

Lincoln would rush to meet him or let himself be pushed, but it would happen—Michael is sure of it. He would kiss Lincoln slowly, just relishing the feel of it. Then he’d deepen it, plundering Lincoln’s mouth and meeting him in return. He’d make Lincoln drunk with the power of his tongue, draw out the slut in him that has always been Lincoln’s weak spot.

Then he’d move over onto Lincoln’s lap, straddle him and rock and ride across him while kissing and licking until Lincoln just can’t think.

“Michael, I want…” Lincoln would murmur, but Michael would shut him off with a headshake that Lincoln could feel. Kissing harder, hands on Lincoln’s chest—his nipples—and rolling his hips across Lincoln’s waking arousal, he’d keep control of what was offered and how badly it was needed.

Unbuckling his own belt, sliding down his pants, he’d rise up on his knees and rub himself through his briefs. Cupping a hand behind Lincoln’s head, he’d bring it down to meet his swelling erection. “Show me,” he’d say again, “Show me” as he shifted and arched his back to brush himself across Lincoln’s lips. And Lincoln would break, would bite him softly through the soft cotton before yanking down his underwear and swallowing Michael whole.

He’d buck and roll, not too hard but never gentle, and Lincoln’s hands would wrap around him and hold him firmly against falling. Hands on Lincoln’s shoulders, swaying from the dizzying build of desire, he would push and thrust and _talk_ : “Do it. Harder, Lincoln. Like that, just like that.” And Lincoln would lick and suck and take him deep and oh so strong. When he finally came, he’d press Lincoln’s head against him and make him swallow every single, aching drop.

Afterward, he’d drop back down on Lincoln’s lap and lean in close.

“That’s a start,” Michael would say. And he might kiss Lincoln—not giving away too much.

If _he_ were different, Michael would already be halfway down that road.

On the run now-- in this shack where they are halfway between disaster and freedom-- he can hear Lincoln breathing beside him in the dusty dark.

And thinking of every thing he’s done—every unspoken, naked act of desperation—Michael is fucking tempted to already _be_ that man right now.

  


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